


Eromenos

by Robecca



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Dubious Consent, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Nonnies Made Me Do It, PWP, Pederasty, Power Imbalance, Sex Magic, Student/Mentor relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-09
Updated: 2013-05-09
Packaged: 2017-12-10 22:33:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/790950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Robecca/pseuds/Robecca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>According to Deaton, Stiles can save Beacon Hills without werewolf powers, a crossbow, a gun, or a self-igniting molotov cocktail. He just needs his own talents and a little sex magic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eromenos

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to my lovely anonymous beta, M, who did an amazing job. ♥ Any remaining mistakes are the result of my compulsive tweaking.

“Okay,” Stiles said, after he slammed a tiny bottle down on the counter in front of Deaton. “I’ll do it.”

Deaton stared at the bottle and then at Stiles. Stiles stared back. Having this conversation surrounded by the noises of sick animals and the smell of kibble was bizarre but Stiles refused to back down. Everything about his proposal seemed surreal and the only way he had of coping was to power right through the weird like it didn’t bother him.

It certainly didn’t bother Deaton, though he frowned at Stiles. “It’s the middle of the day, Stiles. And we certainly don’t have room to do it here.”

Stiles barked a laugh and shook his head in disbelief. “Oh, well, if it’s the middle of the day that changes everything. We can’t have magic se-“

“Stiles!” That was the first show of strong emotion Stiles had ever drawn out of Deaton, and of course it was annoyance. His chest warmed with a vindictive burst of pride. “I have appointments that can’t be cancelled. If you’re sure, you can go to my home and wait for me.”

“Your –“ Stiles gaped. He knew it made him unattractive, but he couldn’t help it. “Your house.”

“I assume yours wouldn’t suit our purposes. Your father might object.”

Christ. As if he had magical sex with seventeen-year-olds every day.

…Maybe he did. It might explain why he was so chill.

Stiles shook himself out of it long enough to take the key Deaton handed him and the address he wrote down. He searched for something to say, some smooth way to exit the conversation, but gave up and closed his mouth with a pop. He left the clinic without another word.

The drive across town did little to calm Stiles. He shoved the key in the lock the wrong way three times before he got it right and opened the door to Deaton’s unassumingly normal townhouse. The inside was dark and cool compared to the heat of summer. Stiles shivered as he closed and locked the door.

He turned his back and slid down the door, taking in deep breaths to stave off the anxiety building in his chest. It was twelve forty-five now, and the clinic closed at five, so he had just over four hours to get himself ready. He’d thought about this so many times during the past week, cried, jerked off, imagined how it would go in every conceivable configuration of good and bad and awkward, but now that he was here it seemed like he wasn’t prepared at all.

Sex was good, Stiles reminded himself. He wanted to have sex, and this sex would help the entire town. Stiles wasn’t a werewolf, he couldn’t patrol like Scott and Isaac. He wasn’t a cop like his father, so he couldn’t shoot a gun or lock people in jail. He wasn’t a hunter with all the tricks and knowledge to take down an Alpha pack before they killed anyone else.

What he could do was this strange kind of magic. He could mix his belief and the forces of life to actually do something useful.

‘ _There are two powerful sources of magic, Stiles. Two tools to wield,_ ” Deaton had told him weeks ago. “ _Death and sex. Death tears things apart and makes them worse. Sex creates new life and new power; it helps._ ”

At the time Stiles had assumed this was a vague statement that had no impact on his life, like many of Deaton’s other lessons. It was good to know, but since he didn’t have anyone willing to have sex with him and never wanted to commit murder, it wasn’t exactly relevant.

Until it was.

Deaton had given him a whole stack of books to read a few weeks into summer break. Stiles took a month to read them all, but he got the point after three of them described all the magic you could work by getting busy. Being passive-aggressively propositioned by someone who looked only a few years younger than his father was beyond creepy until Stiles hit the really useful spells, and then he understood. Sex magic could do so much. The book had spells to heal a critical wound, or ones to cure the common cold, an entire chapter dedicated to making rain fall and crops grow in a drought. They all fascinated him and he had imagined casting them one by one with a different faceless partner until he read the final spell.

When he’d gone over it ten times, he knew what Deaton wanted and what he had to do. With one act, they could save the town from the circling Alpha pack and the lingering threat of Gerard. This was what Deaton had wanted all along: he needed someone like Stiles to complete the ritual. He had probably been building to it since before he took Stiles on as a student.

This would be fine, Stiles told himself firmly and forced his legs to work. He wandered around the house for a while, taking note of the fact that there were no personal photos anywhere, only artifacts from far-off places and random talismans that felt magic deep down to his bones. The house and the magic screamed Deaton at every turn, overwhelming Stiles with the sense that he was an intruder here. He shed his clothing as he walked: button-down plaid on on the couch, t-shirt on the stairs, jeans and shoes and socks in a puddle in the middle of the upper hallway. He hadn’t bothered wearing underwear.

He ran a bath in the spacious tub and filled it full of random squirts from all the bottles lining the side of it, taking in the smells of lemongrass, anise, and peppermint one by one. The book had called for ‘cleansing oils’ before the ritual, and Stiles guessed these counted if Deaton had them on hand. He stayed submerged in the tub for an hour, nearly drifted off, before the water went cold. After that he resumed his snooping.

He stole a shirt from Deaton’s room. It was too big on him and smelled of Deaton’s cologne but it would keep him warm while he worked. The dark plum color looked nice against his pale skin but it reminded him of a bruise.

Unable to avoid it any longer, he went back downstairs and cleared the dining room of its table and chairs. He fished a piece of chalk and some string out from his ‘magic kit’ – a neon green pencil box with ironic gold star stickers and delusions of grandeur – and set to work on the circle needed to trap the magic. He worked through the next hour and a half until Deaton’s hardwood was coated in chalk all the way to the walls with only a circle in the middle clear for them.

Next, Stiles took the twin of the bottle he’d thrust at Deaton and downed it. His hands felt slippery on the bottle and a few drops spilled down onto the floor before he could lick them off his chin. He discarded the bottle and waited for Deaton, flushed and tipsy from the potion meant to ease the passage of his magic, until he heard the front door open.

“Stiles?” Deaton called.

“Dining room,” Stiles answered. “I have everything ready, you just have to look it over. See if it’s right.”

Deaton appeared at the doorway with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the top few buttons undone. Stiles met his eyes, though he wanted to look away, and held them with a challenging tilt of his chin. Deaton held his gaze. He was, for all Stiles could tell, back to being completely collected about the whole thing even when Stiles was shaking and wearing Deaton’s clothes.

Stiles licked his lips when he saw Deaton’s brown eyes leaving his to dart down, over the exposed skin of his chest and to where his thighs and the oversized shirt hid his cock. “I did everything already. You – you just need to –“

The words lodged in his throat and Stiles suppressed a scream of frustration. His words had abandoned him completely; anything he said now would be a garbled mess of babble.

“I know,” Deaton said anyway, as if he knew what Stiles meant. He half-turned away and worked at unbuttoning the rest of his shirt and toeing off his shoes before stepping into the circle. He rotated on his feet, examining the chalk circle from every angle and humming his approval. “This is good, Stiles. You did well.”

Stiles beamed at him. Maybe beaming wasn’t what anyone wanted out of a sexual partner, Stiles didn’t know, but any compliment from Deaton deserved a celebration because they were really fucking rare.

"Here," Stiles said, rather than acknowledging the compliment. He passed a piece of chalk - purple, mixed with aconite dust - to Deaton. Their hands brushed as he took it, accidental on Stiles’ part and deliberate on Deaton's. Deaton kept his hand against Stiles’, hanging there in the air, until Stiles looked up at him. There was real, naked desire in those deep brown eyes and it nearly sent Stiles panicking again.

This was for Beacon Hills, he reminded himself. Deaton didn't actually want him. The sex would probably suck, as much as sex could suck, but it would get the job done. No need to get his hopes up for something more, something nice, or worry about how strange this would be, or imagine real lust when there was none.

Mistaking his shaking hand, Deaton drew back. "We can ask Morrell, Stiles. She can do my part of the working, if she’s more to your taste.”

Stiles shook his head. He didn't trust Morell, and neither did Deaton. There were any number of ways a participant could twist the ritual to their own means. Committing to it showed absolute trust; as cryptic as Deaton could be, Stiles would lay his life in his hands without hesitation and he knew beyond any doubt that Deaton wanted to protect this town as much as he did.

"No. I don't trust her." When that didn't soften Deaton's expression, Stiles added, "I want to do this with you. With us. We can make it work."

It shouldn't be him assuring Deaton. Deaton was older by decades, more experienced, not even doing this particular ritual for the first time. Stiles was seventeen and shaking and not at all ready. Talking through it calmed him, though, so he kept going: "We're going to have sex in this circle, willingly, because we want to. And it's going to fix Beacon Hills. It will keep everyone safe, for a year, keep everything that intends to do evil out."

As he spoke his voice grew steadier and his words more assured. Deaton, for his part, returned to removing his shirt until he could discard it outside the circle. He followed with a white undershirt, his socks, his slacks. Stiles watched with a dry mouth as he neatly folded each item and placed them in a little pile on the counter. Deaton's skin beneath the clothes, from his elbows up and neck down, was covered in tattoos. They were all sewn in brown ink that looked like henna and all but matched his skintone, and Stiles could recognize few of the patterns. What he could make out looked like protection and power, and his fingers curled as he itched to touch them. 

Once he'd taken off everything else, Deaton removed his pinstriped boxer shorts with the same brisk efficiency. Stiles looked skyward to avoid seeing at Deaton's nudity, but a hand on his chin drew him back down to meet Deaton's eyes. His gaze flickered down to look but then snapped back up again. "Stiles. Look at me. This isn't going to work if you can't look."

"I'm looking," Stiles assured. His own voice sounded thready and unsure. "I'm looking at you, you're - you're -"

Gorgeous. Unexpectedly built, miles of smooth skin, bigger than Stiles in height and weight. Stiles' dick showed an interest in the proceedings for the first time with a half-hearted twitch as warmth built up in his belly and along the ridges of his cheeks. He licked his lips, imagining what he looked like to Deaton, hoping it was good. Pale, wiry, freshly shaven for the ritual, body absolutely covered in freckles and moles and random scars, nothing special or unusual in their world filled with inhuman beauty.

Realizing he'd left his sentence dangling and worrying it might have been misinterpreted, he hurried to finish: "You're beautiful. Wait. You can't call a man -"

Deaton cut him off with a kiss. It wasn't chaste, but it wasn't dirty either. Deaton's lips opened far enough that they could both feel the promising heat but neither of them moved to deepen it. While Stiles was reeling, and getting as much of the kiss as he could, Deaton knocked the shirt off his shoulders. It was big enough that it fell off completely with the slightest urging and left Stiles just as bare as Deaton.

Deaton tapped Stiles’ chest, over his heart, with one finger. Stiles wasn't sure what it meant, but it sent a rush through him that he couldn't identify as lust or magic. Right now, they felt the same. The whole room was humming with something, though Stiles hoped it wasn't power. Much more without closing the circle and they might set the entire house on fire, or blow up the neighborhood.

As if reading Stiles’ thoughts, Deaton broke the kiss - it made a wet noise that had Stiles moaning and leaning forward to try and keep it, before he came back to his senses - and picked the chalk up again. Stiles moved to sit in the center circle, the one surrounded by concentric rings of runes in his neatest handwriting. The inner circle was big enough for both of them to lie down in, but instead Stiles drew his knees up to his chest and propped his chin on top to wait for his teacher to finish the binding.

He felt it when the circle closed. Once, Allison had shocked him with a taser at the lowest setting. He had insisted on it, so that he would know how it felt and be ready for it if it ever happened for real. Completing the first step, combining his and Deaton's magic, felt a lot like that. Sharp and painful and down to his very bones.

When Deaton knelt in front of Stiles, powerful even on his knees, Stiles saw that he was already hard. It was a different kind of shock, one that felt like taking too much adderall after too little sleep. His heart went crazy-painful in his chest and his entire body flushed so hard it made his eyes water. He curled his toes and his fingers against the varnished hardwood and stared.

Deaton's cock was bigger than his, just like everything else. Stiles compared size before anything else, even in porn. It wasn't that he was insecure, he just wanted to know, and right now he had a firsthand ticket to knowledge. Deaton was uncut, unlike Stiles, and Stiles really couldn't stop himself from reaching out to drag the foreskin up and down over the head just to see how it felt.

"Careful," Deaton said, strangled. Stiles froze, though he didn't take his hand away. The warning snapped him back to reality enough to process the heavy weight in his palm and what it meant. He pulled back as if stung.

Deaton kissed him again, not on the mouth but on his cheek near his ear. Stiles’ blush flamed hotter, and who knew cheeks could be erogenous zones? Stiles’ entire body felt like an erogenous zone as Deaton said, "It's okay. You're doing well."

"What do we do now?" Stiles whispered. He didn't mean to, but his voice couldn't seem to go any higher. Deaton touched his hand to Stiles’ throat as it bobbed.

"I need to prepare you. You'll be the vessel for the magic, the one we'll pour everything into. Up on you knees." Deaton rocked back to reach for the oil waiting at the inner edge of the circle in a crystal bottle as Stiles scrambled to comply. He tipped it over Stiles’ shoulder, sending two trails over his front and back. The oil was warmer than Stiles expected, and it only got hotter with contact. Deaton swiped over Stiles’ belly before it could drip off and smeared it hot and messy over his abdomen, then up over his chest. His fingers brushed over Stiles nipples and Stiles gasped; Deaton smiled, not at Stiles, and returned to give them some firmer attention. His hand rubbed rough circles over each, pressing firmly and dragging the skin back and forth as Stiles’ nipples hardened. It probably wasn't necessary for the ritual, but it felt so good that Stiles actually moaned. Deaton tilted his head. "Does that feel nice?"

"Everything feels nice," Stiles said with a little scowl. It annoyed him for no rational reason that another person could make him feel like this. It was dangerous. "That feels nice."

"Good." Deaton left his nipples alone, though, and moved on. His big hands circled Stiles's neck, not tight enough to hurt but holding with the threat of power. His thumbs rested at the hollow of Stiles’ collarbone. Stiles shook his head, but he wasn't sure what he was objecting to and Deaton ignored him anyway. He moved on to Stiles' face, smearing the oil along Stiles' jawline and then up his cheeks to circle Stiles’ eyes. He even rubbed it into Stiles’ scalp, which was so unexpectedly good that Stiles yelped.

When he finished with Stiles' front Deaton moved behind him and pushed Stiles forward until he was bent double with his back and ass completely exposed. The oil on his skin felt like a really great backrub until Deaton's hands reached his hips, which he squeezed tight before he shoved his hand between Stiles’ legs. Stiles trembled; he'd prepared for this in the past week. He'd spent weeks in the shower contorting himself until he could shove his fingers up his ass, but he'd never made it feel as good as anything online made it sound. Maybe Deaton could make it feel better; maybe it was different with a dick. Stiles bit his lip, waiting for the penetration that never came.

Instead Deaton's hands bypassed his ass entirely to grope his balls and stroke the entire length of his cock, just once. _This is it,_ Stiles thought. _This is actually happening to me._

Stiles pressed his forehead to the floor and tried not to moan again, but then Deaton recovered old ground and slid his hands between Stiles's ass cheeks to get the oil in every possible inch.

"Oh my _God_."

"No," Deaton answered, smug. Stiles felt a kiss at the base of his spine and a dark chuckle while Deaton finished up his legs much faster than he had any other area of Stiles's body. "Not God."

“G-Great time to grow a sense of humor. A-plus.” Stiles craned his neck over his shoulder to see what Deaton was doing back there. He’d stopped touching, and while Stiles might be nervous about the situation, he didn’t want the touching to stop. He nearly swallowed his own tongue when he saw Deaton’s hands running over his own cock, pulling back the foreskin and dripping precome onto the dark wood floor.

“Shh, Stiles. Here.” Deaton let go of himself to grip Stiles’ shoulders and pull him onto his hands and knees. “Press your legs together.”

Stiles obeyed without thinking, but it didn’t seem right. “Shouldn’t I be spreading them?”

“No,” Deaton said, and slid his cock between Stiles’ thighs. The oil made the slide easy and Stiles felt the heat of it down to his bones. Deaton’s cock brushed against his balls and then the base of his dick on the thrust in, and then again on the shudder-slow withdraw. Stiles’ eyes slammed shut and he swore he saw actual fireworks behind them.

“Oh my god,” he repeated. “Oh my god.”

“Shh.” Deaton bent down to kiss him again. Stiles squeezed his thighs tighter and the kiss turned into a grunt that knocked all the air from Deaton and onto the bumps of Stiles’ spine. 

“Yeah, keep going, okay, it’s –“ Stiles wasn’t making sense, but it didn’t matter when Deaton started thrusting again. He didn’t speed up. The thrusts were so slow that Stiles could inhale between them and exhale in one great burst when Deaton’s thighs hit his ass again. “This is how the ancient Greeks…”

“Taught their students,” Deaton finished the thought for him. He was breathing heavy now but still managed that lecturing tone. “Eromenos and Erastes, student and teacher.”

“H-hell of a way to learn.” Stiles’ arms trembled from holding up his weight while he wanted to do nothing more than collapse so he could do something about this painful arousal. He never had the patience to draw things out when he touched himself, there was never any point in delaying the gratification, but now he needed to wait until Deaton finished. Focus on the magic, he told himself, but all he could feel was the inch-wide strip of skin where Deaton’s cock and his met with each breath.

“It made the lesson stick.” As if it were nothing, Deaton added, “It was how I learned.”

“You –“ Stiles tried to twist around but suddenly Deaton’s hands pinned him in place. He could feel all ten fingers individually pressed into the bony curve of his hips, enough to bruise, enough to still him while Deaton grunted and spilled over the two of them. Neither of them moved but the ambient magic in the air blew out of the circle and then back in, a reverse supernova concentrated in Stiles’ body.

He burned all over. Deaton turned him onto his back, right into the puddle of come, but Stiles barely felt it when every part of him held the full force of what they’d created. He no longer wanted to get off, he _needed_ it, more than anything he’d ever needed before.

“Shh,” Deaton whispered again. Stiles expected a hand, if he thought of anything at all, but his body grew impossibly hotter when Deaton’s wet mouth closed over his cock and swallowed him down. He may have screamed, or cried, or scratched Deaton’s ears off as he thrust mindlessly into the heat. He may have done anything on his quest to send the magic away, pour it out of its vessel and into the world. Deaton’s hand joined his mouth to cup Stiles’ balls and it only took a squeeze before the magic fled.

It poured out of his cock along with his come, out of his mouth with his scream, out of his eyes as they stared unseeing at the ceiling while his body thrashed and his mind disappeared. It broke the circle to pieces and spread over Beacon Hills as a bubble that he felt grow lighter and thinner as his muscles relaxed and his heart slowed until he felt nothing at all except a firm, smug assurance.

“It worked,” he said.

“It did,” Deaton agreed. “It will hold for a year and a day.”

Stiles stretched and pulled himself up. He met Deaton’s eyes without shame, and Deaton’s smile was just as mysterious as usual but all for him. “What then?”

“Then we see if you remember what you’ve learned.”

Stiles returned the smile. He would look forward to it.


End file.
